


The Imp & The Dragon

by Caden_Parker



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar Backstory, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Caretaking, Character Death, Character Development, Character Study, Dark Character, Dark Fantasy, Depression, Dragons, Elemental Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Hypothermia, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Internalized racism, Lesbian Sex, Long, Loss of Limbs, Mage Rights, Magic, Near Death Experiences, Not Canon Compliant, Old Gods, Out of Character Sera, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Qunari Culture and Customs, Racism, Secrets, Self-Growth, Self-Worth Issues, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spirit Animals, Spiritual Connections, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Tal-Vashoth The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Torture, aftermath of suicide, original lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23083636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Parker/pseuds/Caden_Parker
Summary: The necessity of survival is a cruel, unflappable mistress — it’s a leash Talan Adaar knows well. A leash far more formidable than that of the Qun. A Tal-Vashoth and a mercenary, Adaar has made a life for herself far from the borders of Seheron, simply going where coin bids her. It and it alone calls her to the Conclave. The Conclave, in turn, leads her to Sera — to gray eyes and an impish smile, which pull insistently at Talan’s heart, begetting more questions than answers.
Relationships: Female Adaar/Sera, Female Amell/Leliana (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Sera, Female Mage Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Blood Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Rogue_of_Dragonstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Rogue_of_Dragonstone/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: All characters/ideas in the Dragon Age™ universe, aside from my own, are copyrighted (©) by Bioware. 
> 
> Author’s Note: This is my first foray into Dragon Age fanfic. I simply wanted to expand my OC, feeling that she deserved a more in-depth story.  
> This is, primarily, a Sera/Adaar fic. That said, Sera’s character will shift — by that I mean not that I aim to alter her entirely, (she will still be the quick-tongued rogue we know) — but she will grow from her experiences, as anyone is apt to do if they spend enough time in the world. 
> 
> A few more Notes: I have made a few changes to Qunari culture. Families are prominent fixtures for many, though not all. Talan, my OC, will not be an atheist nor a worshiper of the Maker, but a believer in The Mother of Dragons, Ataashi, and The Father, Chaska. Yes, I made up my own lore for this fic. 
> 
> The Kossith in this story, (those that the modern Qunari came from), are thought to be equal parts dragon and Qunari.
> 
> ****Untranslated Qunlat will be marked with bold print, as the language is incomplete.**  
> **  
>  ****Glossary is at the end****

_“Another story, imekari?” Maraas Adaar sighed indulgently. Hearing the plea in his daughter’s voice, he was unable, as always, to refute it. His scarred lips stretched into a smile. “Saam. But then you_ must _sleep.” Talan watched his mouth as he spoke, remembering the tale of her mother removing the stitching. That was not a story she liked. A huge, thick-fingered hand reached deftly for her hair, pausing in its gentle stroking to tweak the small horns protruding slightly from beneath a white mane. Talan grinned up at him from her bedroll, enjoying the playfulness of his expression. “All right, Kadan,” he said after a moment, a laugh in his voice, “Settle in now. Which story will be our last for tonight, hmm?”_

_"Ataashi,” she said immediately, excited despite having heard the tale a dozen times. “Tell it again, Papa. Please?” Her voice was muffled by a thick layer of blankets, pulled as they were up to her chin. “It’s my favorite.”_

_Maraas nodded. “Saam, I know.” Clearing his throat softly, he began, the depth and cadence of his voice luring her away to a place bright with the fancy of a child’s mind. “Ataashi is our Mother — The First Dragon. Although,” Maraas tapped the side of his nose knowingly, “She did not start as one. No, imekari, she started as something far greater — the sun. She warmed the world with her light, and delighted in giving birth to the earth as we know it. Under her rays, man was born, and with them the sculpting of land. On that land, battles were fought, and blood was shed; yet our Mother’s light still shone._

_Ataashi watched all of this from above, angered by the destruction. The earth, whose seas and rivers and plants and trees she’d given life to, were all being soiled by war, or pillaged due to greed. She despaired, thinking all she had done was for nothing, until one day… A mortal man, whose skin had been kissed by her, was basking in her warmth. He took nothing she gave for granted, you see. Feathers from birds she had warmed as eggs adorned his hair, halla skin protected his own from rain, and clay, red as his own blood, he wore to honor her, for his people paid homage to her by covering their faces in the stuff and turning them to the sky. That is how vitaar came to be. He appreciated what was, imerkari, not what could be, and_ that _is why she fell in love with him._

 _Her affection for this selfless mortal — Chaska, our Father —_ _became so strong that she could no longer bear being apart from him. So, she beseeched Hina, the Goddess of the Moon, the First Shapeshifter, to change her into a being of earth. Hina agreed, and stuck Ataashi from the heavens in the form of a dragon. For if he could love her in such a state, the Goddess proclaimed, he would be worthy of her. Ataashi became the first fire-breather, harnessing the power of the sun — a new one had taken her place, maintained by Hina’s will — inside her._

_Elated, she sought out her love, startled and saddened when her appearance frightened him. “No!” she cried, and her voice, the voice of her mind, echoed between them as if carried by wind. “I mean no harm, Son of Earth. It is I, Ataashi.” At that Chaska’s eyes widened, and he reached out, touching her golden scales with the gentlest of caresses. That touch, Kadan, allowed her love for him to be known to him, for his heart was pure and without judgement. He understood everything, felt within his very bones the longing she had harbored, the anger._

_After a time, it became clear Ataashi ached for children, ached to solidify the ever-growing bond with our Father. Of course, being a dragon, she could not bear his children, and so again she called on Hina, and begged to be made human in full. Moved by her vehement plea, the Goddess transformed her a final time, but the spell was a faulty one. It only served to make Ataashi_ half _human; most of Hina’s magic had gone into maintaining the second sun that had taken our Mother’s place. The spell left her with the horns, skin and eyes of a dragon, while her body was that of a human. To her surprise, Chaska loved her still, and from their union, the first Kossith were created — Your ancestors, imekari."_

_Maraas smiled lovingly at his daughter as he finished the tale, which was familiar to him as his own skin. Sadness tinged his heart as he pictured her in his mind’s eye, using the aid of his wife’s description, as he always had. His own eyes, once intelligent and ocean-blue, were now misty and unseeing, sitting uselessly behind charred eyelids. He covered them with a bolt of black cloth, so as not to frighten the babes wandering about, having recently let go of their mothers’ skirts in favor of play._

_His daughter’s face was much like his, Asala claimed, triangular in shape, with a sharp, prominent jaw. Her skin was the same as his — a light gray, like a rain-filled sky. His hair, like hers, was white, though his was coarse with horse-like texture, while hers was softer, with waves throughout, like her mother’s. She also possessed his height, strength, and width of shoulder — half a head taller than most children in the encampment. She resembled her mother in wit and character, in the height of her cheekbones and the length of her hands. Talan’s eyes, however, were hers alone. It was clear from them that Kossith blood ran in her veins, as the shape of her eyes were human, but the whites of them were gray, as her skin was, and the irises a startling golden-green, reminiscent of her draconic ancestors._

_“Now, my little Ataashi,” he murmured affectionately, gripping the dragon-headed walking staff he had crafted with his own hands and uttering a soft grunt as he stood, his long braid swaying, “Sleep. Sleep and dream of the sun.”  
_

* * *

  
Near a stream to the east end of the Tellari swamps, Talan Adaar sat motionless before a dwindling fire. Its dying embers lit her blank face in muted, twisted orange, giving off the barest of warmth. She had grown used to the cold hours before and now no longer noticed the night’s chill. A high wind sent sand whipping upward; she blinked suddenly, startled out of her reverie by the feel of grit in her eyes. Wiping at them with the back of her hand, she stood from her perch of a freshly-downed ash trunk and stretched. Wrapping a strong hand around the leather-hilted valo-kas at her side, she easily hoisted the great-blade to her shoulder and let it rest there, the weight of it instantly comforting. She gave her horse — a stout, dappled gray stallion of Asaarash blood — a warm pat to his neck as she passed, eager to finish her patrol of the perimeter before day break.

The bodies of the raiders her kith had found hours before still lay charred around its edge — intruders who’d been hunting Yavana, the Witch of Antivan legend. A bounty. That’s what they’d been after. Fools. As if six marauders could hope to slay a shape-shifter; as if gold was worth dying for. Talan stopped, and nudged a yellow-haired corpse with a black-booted toe. Dragon fire had scorched his worn, green doublet, had burned his youthful, girlish face. She grimaced. The merchant’s son. Dammit. Thrusting her sword into the soil, she knelt, and pulled the single gold ring, dangling from a chain, free from his neck. The boy’d probably had dreams of bringing his father riches, which explained what he was doing here with men who were less than honorable. With gentle fingers, she closed his frightened, staring eyes and stood, pocketing her proof. 

When she returned to the clearing, the fire was well and truly dead. Glancing at the moon, a sliver of light against starless blackness, she guessed her watch was up. She was glad of it, having been up since sunrise. Quietly, and with more grace than one expected of a warrior, Talan crossed the grounds, her long legs clearing the distance easily. “Ashaad,” she murmured, parting her comrade's tent flap and peering in, “Ashaad!” A sleepy grumble answered her. “Come on, up you get. You take last watch, remember?” Her deep, pleasant voice held an edge of teasing. Ashaad, more than anyone else in the company, hated to be roused from sleep. The bedroll moved in reply, and Talan watched with amusement as the Saarebas detangled himself from the furs. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble,” she told him as he clambered out, muttering, “But stay sharp. Humans tend to get bold by night, and I doubt they want to meet the same fate as the boy.” At his questioning look, she produced the ring.

“Vashedan,” he cursed, scowling at the metal band in her palm before raising his eyes to hers. “Well, we might get something for it, yet. You know humans and their sentimentalities — share a likeness with the Dalish in that respect, though Ataashi knows they’d never admit it.”

Talan nodded, clapping him on a massive shoulder. “Agreed, but loss is loss, karasten. Race means nothing when you’re bent over a pyre grieving.” 

The Saarebas gave her a soft look. He was glad that a woman with such a level head was his leader. Equally compassionate and resolved, Adaar made a formidable captain; one he served willingly. He’d given his allegiance easily despite her gender, which had surprised her as well as the others at first. She’d proven herself capable, and to Ashaad’s mind, to the company’s, that was all that mattered. “Aye, captain,” he replied soberly. “Aye.”  
  


* * *

  
The city-square of Seleny bustled restlessly; a cacophony of sound, a body of movement that paused only briefly to recognize the strangers who had created upset. Talan returned each questioning flick of eyes with a nod, neither stoic nor resigned, but something in between. Amongst the stalls of brightly-colored fabrics and gleaming jewelry, Talan looked from face to sun-kissed face, towering over the humans that surrounded her as she tried to spot the contract-issuer. At last she found him, recognizing the silken blue of his tunic among the beige and white garments of the commoners. Distinguished customers flocked his stall, running their fingers over rings of all sizes and gems that would undoubtedly impress any Frelden lord. “Four florins, Signorina, for this is a _fine_ cloth, but for you — Ahh, for you — a mere two florins!” Delighted, she produced the coins from a small leather pouch about her wrist and took up her purchase, thanking him profusely as she did. Her smile, broad as it was, slipped from her face as soon as she met Talan’s gaze. A surprised gasp fell from her mouth, prompting the others to turn and look. They, too, stared wide-eyed. 

“Excuse the interruption,” Talan said easily, smiling in an attempt to quell the obvious discomfort of those around her. “Master Benito,” she called, raising her voice above the din, “Might we speak privately?” 

He nodded, and moved from around his stall with the quickness of one eager for news. “Of course.” Looking into his patrons' confused and impatient faces, he gave an appeasing grin. “I apologize, good folk, but business must be concluded.” A collective groan filled the air. “My wares shall still be here in the morning, I swear to you. Benito always keeps his word, sì?” Pacified, they dispersed in groups of twos and threes, heads bent conspiratorially as they whispered amongst themselves. “Now then,” the merchant murmured, watching the back of a finely-dressed man disappear within the crowd before meeting the eyes of the qunari before him, “You’ve word of my son?”

“Yes, Signore, but it is not good news.” Talan watched hope fade from the man’s face, and braced herself. “I’m afraid your son’s dead. Yavana’s fire ended him.”

“No,” he rasped, dark eyes distant and wet, starting over Adaar’s shoulder as if he expected the boy to solidify out of thin air. “No.” Clenching his teeth he turned back to her, hissing his words to keep the anguish in him quiet for a moment longer. “You’re lying,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. “You must be.”

“Guard your tongue, _Bas_ ,” Shokrakar growled dangerously from Talan’s left, her canines flashing briefly in warning. “You speak to our leader.” The man paled, shaking with rage and grief both. The captain shot a reprimanding glare in her direction before turning back to the trembling merchant.

“I’m sorry. Truly. I know what it means to lose those you love.” Bitterly she thought of the night she'd fled Seheron — the night Ben-Hassrath had learned of the encampment on its very tip — her home — and set it alight. _“An example,”_ her father had said later, _“Of what happens when many reject the Qun.”_ A literal lesson. Without the Qun, one’s life meant little more than ashes in the wind. A Tal-Vashoth Talan had always been, and a Tal-Vashoth she would remain. She could not abide it, could not imagine being subordinate to those who had killed her friends, maimed her father, all in the name of the Qun. Wordlessly, she held out the boy’s ring, dropping it into a quaking hand. 

“Mucca-faccia!” Benito screeched, heedless of onlookers in the heat of his rage. “Stronza!” Talan’s eyes narrowed, but she kept silent. “I hired you to find my son, and you bring me _this_! I won’t stand for it! I won’t accept anything less than Yavana’s head!” 

“Killing her will solve nothing,” she said tightly, fighting to keep her voice level. “Your boy will still be dead come morning. You hired me to find your son — I did. I fulfilled my end of our agreement; the condition that I found him _in_ was an unfortunate one, true, but I can do nothing more for you. To try and hunt Yavana is suicide, and I will not subject my company to a danger I deem foolish without a high probability of coming out of it alive.”

Benito said nothing to that, only looked at her with wide, helpless eyes. Talan held out her hand. “My payment, Signore. Two-hundred florins, as agreed.” The merchant sneered, but reached for the pouch at his belt nonetheless. Dropping it heavily into her palm, his gaze pierced her as she made to leave. She nodded curtly. “Ciao, merchant. Chaska grant you peace.”  
  


* * *

  
As the company rode up to the inn, a building of white-washed brick shining in the sun, stable-hands emerged from the shadows of the red canopied roof, quickly snuffing out pipes and abandoning half-empty bottles of wine to assist them. Shokrakar rolled her pale violet eyes at them, instructing to be wary of the mounts; qunari-bread horses were skittish around strangers, and they’d best remember that if they wished to keep their knees in tact.

The front door of _The Red Dove_ was made of hearty oak, and though the hinges were well-oiled, Talan noticed, the sign above it — a beautiful rendering of the bird itself, with a red ribbon clutched in its talons — was not, and creaked violently at the disturbance of newcomers. At the sound, a few patrons looked up, squinting against the sun. Talan’s tall shadow fell across the sun-bleached planks of the inn, but none remarked on it, nor her size as she and company cautiously made their way inside. Her horns scrapped the door frame, prompting a muffled curse, but it was quickly swallowed by the noise and clangor of the inn. “Welcome to The Red Dove! You’ll not find finer mead nor a softer bed in all Antiva!” 

Talan smiled at the innkeep, a plump, brown woman with a particularly heavy accent. “I am glad to hear it, Signorina. My band and I have traveled far.” She drew the two-hundred florin purse from her belt and counted out fifty, dropping them onto the freshly-wiped bar. “Is this sufficient?” 

The woman nodded vigorously. “Sì, sì. More than enough, Signorina. Do you desire baths, as well? Yes? Of course, of course.” She called sharply to a group of young boys then, who were talking amongst themselves in a corner of the room. They flushed, having been caught idling, and went to do her bidding. “Meals, while you wait?” She gestured to an empty table, and Talan gave a broad, white grin in thanks. 

An elven barmaid approached as they sat. A young, raven-haired lass with wide blue eyes. “Welcome,” she said quietly, reddening under Talan’s gaze. Ashaad, Shokrakar, and Kaariss sniggered into their palms at her obvious innocence. Talan ignored them, and gave the girl a ready smile. “What —What will you have?” she asked when she at last gained control of her tongue. They gave their orders, and after a time, during which they played a game of Wicked Grace to fill the silence, bread, cheese, rabbit stew, ale and honeyed mead were brought out in large quantities. Kaariss finished his meal before the others, and took to telling stories they had all heard a thousand times before, sipping his mead as he went.

“Mother’s Blood, Kaar!” Shokrakar exclaimed, exasperated by the bard’s antics, “Shut _up_! If I have to hear the same tales over and again, at least _try_ to make them fucking interesting! Or, better yet, let me get shitfaced first!” Kaariss blinked, taken aback. Abruptly, he closed his mouth and sank back into his chair. Talan patted his shoulder comfortingly, putting the last of her stew-soaked bread into her mouth with her free hand. Kaariss was the youngest in the company, only eighteen summers, and had been traveling with them for just a year. Shokrakar’s occasional bluntness still baffled him. 

The innkeeper, emerging at a bustle from upstairs, came quickly to Talan’s side and smiled at her, her round arms full of towels. “Your baths are ready. Should you need anything more, ask after Glynnii—” she gestured to the elven barmaid, who was currently serving other patrons — “And she shall fetch me.” Glancing at the door, she met the impatient gaze of another customer, and sighed. “Forgive me, Signorina, but I must tend to the others.” Talan nodded, and she, too, looked at the newcomer. An Antivan noble, if his golden doublet and jeweled long-sword were any indication. She doubted he used it for anything more than decoration.  
  


* * *

  
The bath-chamber, (which Glynnii dutifully led them to), was large and airy. Sunlight streamed in, glinting off the copper tubs as if it were more than the most common of metals. Stools were set beside each tub, a towel and cake of soap atop them. Shokrakar whistled at the sight, and Talan, though she kept silent, agreed with the sentiment. They’d been on the road for two long weeks, having to make due with soapless rinses in whatever stream or lake they’d passed. To bathe in a tub was a luxury in and of itself. 

The women undressed first. The men, with their backs respectfully turned, waited until they heard contented sighs from both their captain and comrade before disrobing and slipping into the steaming water. Kaariss blushed fiercely at Ashaad’s teasing smirk as he gingerly climbed in, his gangly body folding in on itself in order to fit. Ashaad’s hearty laugh made him slip further still into the tub, burning with embarrassment. Not only was he a virgin, unaccustomed to being naked in front of others, but his preference for men was known among them, and was often the cause of light-hearted teasing. The Saarebas, who knew of the boy’s desire for him, was the worse for it, though he couldn’t — or wouldn’t, without guilt — return his affections. To Ashaad, sex was simply a physical act, a means to release tension. To Kaariss, who viewed the world with a storyteller’s eye, it was the joining of souls. Talan thought Ashaad was right to spare the boy’s feelings. She didn’t want to see his spirit dampened by the confusion that would inevitably follow.  
  


* * *

  
Cleaned and dressed, Talan was the last to leave her tub. The others had long since gone back to the common room, eager for more ale and mead. Gathering her long white hair in nimble fingers, she fastened it with a single leather strap as she walked, her long legs clearing the stairs easily. Making her way to the bar, she waited a moment before catching Glynnii’s eye. Acutely aware of the girl’s blush as she approached her, Talan smiled kindly. “Yes, Serah? S...Signorina!” she hurriedly corrected. “Apologies,” she all but whispered, “What can I get you?” 

Talan frowned slightly. _Serah, is it? Well well, a Free Marcher in Antiva. Interesting, but no cause for hiding. I wonder…_ She opened her mouth to reassure the young woman, but a loud shout caused the words to die on her tongue. “Girl! What are you doing, fraternizing with that… _mercenary_? You are meant to be serving, not chatting! My wine, elf, quickly!” Talan turned, setting cold eyes on the young noble she’d glimpsed earlier. He was thoroughly drunk; even in the soft shadows of dusk and flickering candlelight, the inebriated gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. Glynnii lowered her eyes and made to retrieve a jug. Her hands shook with the effort to keep it from spilling. Talan watched as she moved meekly to his side, shakily pouring a rich-looking red into his goblet. Before she could move to aid her, the pitcher wavered in the girl’s hands, and wine splattered onto the man’s lap. “Why you clumsy, foolish—!” As he stood to strike her, Talan caught his wrist. 

“There is no need for this, Signore,” she said coolly. “She meant no harm.” The man, affronted and emboldened by his drunkenness, tried to wrench his wrist free of her grip. Talan’s fingers tightened in response, and although he didn’t cry out, pain twisted his face. “Apologize,” she demanded lowly, “And leave her be. Drinking has made you thoughtless, and mannerless, at that.”

He glared at her. “This is none of your concern, _Ox_. Release me this instant!” At the insult her comrades, who had been watching from their table in a shadowed corner, rose as one. Talan caught the movement with her eyes and gave a minute shake of her head. The last thing she wanted was to start a brawl and frighten the girl and the patrons both. They stilled in their tracks but remained standing, their collective anger almost palpable. She looked pointedly back at the man, deriving a sense of satisfaction from the discomfort etched plainly on his face; she’d applied more pressure to his wrist. “Ahh! Unhand me, damn you! What business is it of yours, she’s just a — _Maker_!” His knees started to buckle under the weight of pain.

“It becomes my business, Signore, when you rise from your seat with the intent to strike an innocent. There’s no reason for it, spilled wine or no. Apologize.” Begrudgingly, he submitted, muttering his pardon as Glynnii stared wide-eyed at the spectacle before her. Talan released him. She watched as he pitched forward, holding his damaged wrist and gritting his teeth. “It isn’t broken,” she told him in a hard voice. “You’ll live, though not long if you keep inciting fights.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the girl. “Are you all right?”

“Y—Yes, Signorina. I — I thank you.” Looking as if she wanted to say more, Talan waited expectantly, but whatever Glynnii wanted to say trapped itself behind her teeth. The innkeeper, who had been seeing to another guest as the establishment was often short-handed, came in from outside with a young woman at her heels. Surprise registered on both their faces as they took in the man on the floor.

“Quello che è successo?!” Her eyes narrowed at Talan. “All coin is good here, Signorina, but I will not have trouble in my inn.” The qunari squared her broad shoulders at the accusation. In a flat, no nonsense tone, she told the innkeep what had transpired. Glynnii, when questioned, nodded stiffly in agreement. “Maker grant me patience,” the woman sighed at last, rubbing her face with a thick palm. “Lord Enza. I have warned you about this, no?” The noble had managed to rise from the floor; he sat slumped in a creaky wooden chair, scowling. “Allora? Partire!” She pointed emphatically at the door. “I cannot dismiss this again, Signore!” she exclaimed with all the vexation of a disappointed mother.

Enza got to his feet, swaying a bit. His words, when they came, were slurred and callous. “This is _preposterous_! Protecting an elven _wench_ as if she’s worth more than serving and whoring! _She_ —” he gestured with an angry jerk of his chin towards the girl — “Is worth _nothing_!” Talan resisted the urge to punch him, instead squeezing her fingers into tight fists.

 _"Out_!” The innkeeper's shout shook the silence that had fallen. “I’ll hear no more of this! The girl is essential — I will not pay compensation in fear that she might fall prey to your temper! _I will not!_ ” Glynnii’s eyes had begun to well, and Talan moved to her side, offering the flash of a reassuring smile. The noble, thoroughly chastised, turned with an indignant growl toward the door and left, cursing as he stumbled through the entrance. A young patron, who sat near it with an amused expression on his face, took it upon himself to rise and close the door after him, shooting the qunari captain a respectful nod as he sat once more to finish his meal. The innkeeper met Talan’s eyes with shame tingeing her face. “Apologies, Signorina. I should not have been so quick to accuse you. I had heard… qunari were not known for their integrity.” She gave a contrite bow of her head.”I should not have accepted gossip so easily from the mouths of foxes.”

The mercenary captain nodded stiffly in acknowledgement, but didn’t deem her words worthy of a reply. “Glynnii — I’d speak with her, if you’d permit.” The last was said for courtesy’s sake alone, and all watching knew it. The inkeep nodded, thick brows furrowed. “I would have honeyed mead and watered wine brought, as well.” As she said this, Talan reached for her coin purse and produced a silver piastra, pressing it firmly into the stunned woman's hand. Again the bewildered nod. She turned to the girl, who was blushing furiously. Grinning at her, Talan motioned towards the stairs with an incline of her head. “Come on,” she said, laughing as even the tips of the elven woman’s ears pinkened, “I promise I don’t have fangs behind my teeth.” As they climbed the stairs, Ashaad’s laugh met her ears. She rolled her eyes, knowing he had already placed a bet on how long he thought it would take her to get the girl into bed.  
  


* * *

  
The room, hers alone for the night, had already been tended to while she had been in the common room. A fire blazed high in the white stone hearth, casting the walls in orange shadow. The bed, large and canopied, called to Talan like a siren. After weeks of traveling, she wanted nothing more than to fall into the down and sleep, but the sound of the door creaking shut behind her reminded her she had a matter to tend to. She turned to the girl. “Will you sit with me?” A nod, complaisant, but eager despite the timidness of the gesture. _Good. It’ll make figuring her circumstances easier_. Going over to the fire, she fell into a cushioned armchair with a heavy sigh. Glynnii watched her for a moment before taking the seat opposite. They said nothing for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. When at last their drinks were brought to them, Talan noticed pastries on accompanying plates. 

“Mistress Amalfi begs your pardon again, ser qunari,” the young elven man said softly, handing her the mead and plate. Talan nodded and thanked him, watching as Glynnii was given her wine and sweet. “And I beg yours, Glynnii. The mistress is… well, you know as well as I how she is.” He glanced at the gray-skinned woman sitting beside his friend, and flushed when she lowered her cup to look at him. _Maker, but she’s frightening! Why Glynnii would accept to be alone with her —_ Falael stopped that thought, and squared his shoulders as best he could under her golden-green gaze. What unsettled him most was the odd color of her irises, and behind them, gray where there should be white; he had never seen a qunari with that feature. A finely-sculpted black brow _—_ for her horns were the same color — raised slightly, and he realized he’d been staring. Flushing, he muttered an apology and left. 

“And I suppose,” Talan began with an edge of humor in her voice, looking from the door to her companion with a smile curving her lips, “That my appearance is what made _you_ stare at me all evening long, so intently, as well?” The girl reddened. Talan laughed good-naturedly. “Your voice may be quiet, but your gaze certainly is not.” 

“I — I’m sorry,” Glynnii murmured, ducking her head to regard the qunari through dark lashes. “It’s just that… I’d never seen one of your kind with eyes such as yours, and I _—_ ” she stopped, biting her full bottom lip. The mercenary captain watched curiously as the girl’s long fingers tightened around the rim of her plate. 

“Yes?” Talan prompted, her voice warm. The younger woman said nothing for a few heartbeats, instead busying herself with finishing her pastry. Talan did the same, and waited.

“I found you beautiful,” she said at last, flushing again. “And then you intervened to stop Lord Enza's hand... You are noble, Serah.” _Noble!_ Talan wanted to laugh. The girl knew nothing of her, of the rage that sang in her blood, born from years of mistreatment, of discrimination. She knew nothing of the lives Talan had taken, cold-eyed and unfeeling, only to steal a coin purse or loaf of bread. “And now,” she continued, pulling the warrior from her dark thoughts, “Now I sit beside you, a lowly elven barmaid of no consequence, drinking wine and eating pastries!” In her befuddlement, her voice rose in pitch, and, seeing Talan’s raised brow, bit her lip again. “If — if you wish to bed me, Serah, then you may. I don’t have anything else to offer in thanks, and I… I would welcome it.” Her companion stared at her, opened her mouth, only to close it again as Glynnii spoke, cutting whatever half rebuke she assumed Talan was about to utter. “I know I need not offer myself like this… But I can sense you’re not like the others, who turn me into a vessel to empty their heavy, thankless selves into. Or perhaps you are,” she amended lightly with a small shrug. “Though the difference is I wouldn’t mind _you_ giving me your sadness, because tonight, I could give you mine, too.” 

“You don’t need to do this,” Talan said, softly, so that the spell of melancholic understanding that existed between them, charged now with a hunger to lose one’s self in the other, stayed. “I didn’t bring you here to bed you.”

Glynnii smiled softly. “I know that now,” she murmured in her soft, almost wistful, voice, placing her empty plate and cup on the table between them. Talan mirrored her. “But even so, I want this to exist between us. I want to remember you.” Talan said nothing, grateful that she felt no pull to fill the air with meaningless words. Glynnii stood from her chair, and moved to stand in front of the woman who called to her so quietly. “Tell me your name.” Another smile was given as it was said. “Talan…” She liked the way the name felt in her mouth, like a press of lips to a sea-worn stone. Glynnii began undoing her apron, but a pair of large, warm hands halted her, cradling her hips and drawing her near. 

“Let me.” Glynnii let her. She liked the way the qunari’s hands followed the natural downward path of her dress, and then knelt to help her step out of it. She liked the ghost of a full mouth on her flesh. She had a feeling the mercenary had done this with countless women. She didn’t mind — so had she. As she turned to face her, fully naked, she caught Talan’s expression, and felt her cheeks warm. Talan herself throbbed at the sight before her; the pale, unblemished skin, pert breasts and slim hips. She watched as the girl took a step forward, and, standing on her toes, kissed her firmly on the mouth.  
  


* * *

  
As they lay silent and sated, Talan recalled her reason for bringing the girl to her room. Glynnii — who was absent-mindedly tracing the blood-red ink of the dragon tattoo that spanned from the qunari’s left shoulder to her wrist — felt the intense gaze from her and looked up, smiling a little. “What is it, Serah? Have I not pleasured you thoroughly enough?” Her voice was playful, but Talan could still hear the underlying unease of one who was often reproached for such things. 

Talan touched her brow, and drew a calloused, though gentle thumb across it, as if she could physically erase the girl’s worry. “No,” she said smoothly, retracting her hand to place it on the elf’s hip, “Nothing like that.” She remembered Glynnii’s talented tongue, her dexterous fingers kneading her thighs as she had tasted her, and throbbed again. “You did well. Tell me something. Why did you so hastily correct yourself, when you first called me Serah?” 

“Mistress Amalfi does not look kindly on Free Marchers who have no coin. She looks even _less_ kindly on elves who haven’t even a copper.” The mercenary captain gave an indignant grunt at that, but otherwise remained silent. “She’s tried to instill Antivan customs in me, you see, to “dignify me,” or so she claims. Repayment, she said, for taking me in when I’d shown up at her door hungry and stinking from months in a ship’s hold. I foolishly thought myself free — _finally_ free — of the shackles of oppression I’d strained so hard against in Kirkwall’s alienage.” The younger woman snorted derisively. “Now I’m under Mistress Amalfi’s thumb. From one injustice to another.” She shook her head. "Such is the way of life for outsiders," she sighed, "Always the recipient of scorn, no matter the character of the one reviving it." 

The qunari nodded in comradery as much as agreement. "Where would you go then, if given the chance?" 

"I'd seek out the Dalish. My mother... raised me on stories of them." She laughed once, and it was the laugh of one who was remembering something sweet, but the memory was tinged with bitter circumstance. "I'd beg for a tale every night before bed. Some clans accept city-dwellers, I've heard."

Talan nodded. She had heard the same, though she did not know which clans took city elves and which did not. In her mind, the separation of the two made no sense. Both were of the same blood; the only barriers to their merging were place of birth and Dalish pride, which should mean nothing in relevance to their down-trodden blood-kin. "You'll need coin. Do you have any hidden?" Glynnii nodded, confiding that she kept her meager earnings in the lining of her left boot. The mercenary omitted that that was the first place any outlaw worth their salt would look. If the girl had enough, she wouldn't have to worry. Thirty piastras and one gold florin. Not nearly enough. Without a word, Talan rose and strode to the dresser where her armor, weapons, and coin purse lay. Counting out ninety florins, she turned and went to the edge of the bed, hand outstretched. It would only leave her with sixty pieces. 

Glynnii's eyes widened, as much from the qunari's toned, naked body as the amount of money she offered. "I can't, Serah," she said softly. 

"You _can_. I'll find work for the company easily enough. People are always looking for groups like mine — we have no official affiliation, and that makes us invaluable to those who choose to hire us. Do you see?" The young elf clearly did not. It was just as well. Talan gave her a patient smile. "Here." A slim, pale hand reached out uncertainty, pausing a few moments before wrapping around the coins and drawing back. 

"Thank you," Glynnii whispered.

In the morning, Talan woke to the smell of coffee and the broad smile of her bed partner the night before. She drank the dark brew happily, listening amusedly to the girl chatter on about the hopes of her future, until the ramblings were cut off with "Oh! Andraste, I almost forgot. This was delivered by pigeon to you this morning." Glynnii fished in her apron pocket, producing a neatly folded letter.

"Oh?" The mercenary straightened in bed, and put her coffee aside. Ashaad and Shokrakar would give her such shit for sleeping in; she was usually the first to rise. Shaking her head mirthfully at the endless teasing she knew she would receive — because they would _know_ the reason she'd slept in — she looked at the letter's seal. The Templar Order. With a sigh, she opened the letter and began to read:

> _To_ _the Leader of the Esteemed Valo-Kas Mercenary Company, Talan Adaar._
> 
> _The Templar Order humbly requests the service of your blades at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, two months from this post._
> 
> _Her Holiness has organized a Divine Conclave with the hope that the war between the templars and mages might end peacefully.  
>  _
> 
> _It is Her Perfection's expressed wish that all companies who hold no present affiliations attend as a mutual third party._
> 
> _You will be handsomely compensated._
> 
> _~Knight-Commander Tavish of Denerim, Faithful Servant of Divine Justinia V._

  
Talan looked up from the letter. Glynnii was frowning. "What is it?" 

"A new contract, though I doubt this one will end well." To that cryptic response the young woman's brow only furrowed further, but the way the mercenary was looking at her made her keep silent. Instead, she watched in confusion as Talan rose and quickly dressed, once again becoming the formidable warrior she had met the night before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antivan (Italian) Translations  
> Mucca-faccia: Cow face  
> Stronza: Bitch  
> Quello che è successo?: What happened?  
> Allora? Partire!: Well? Go! 
> 
> Qunari Words  
> Imekari: Child  
> Saam: Yes (used interchangeably to mean ‘fine.’)  
> Kadan: Term of affection — ‘my heart’ lit. ‘where the heart lies’  
> Vitaar: Qunari war-paint  
> Valo-Kas: Name of Addar’s mercenary company; also the term for ‘Greatsword’  
> Vashedan — Shit (used interchangeably to mean ‘Fuck’)  
> Karasten(s) — Soldier(s) (used interchangeably to mean ‘friend(s)’)  
>  **Not Cannon, but I'm reserving _'Kadan'_ for family and/or a romantic partner**  
> Kith — A small military unit, comparable to a squad or company  
> Bas/Basra — Lit. ‘Thing’. Purposeless; a foreigner to the Qun  
> Ben-Hassrath — Qunari law enforcers, who also serve as spies  
> Saarebas — Qunari mages  
> Asaarash — A Qunari horse breed  
> Tal-Vashoth — Former members of the Qun; those who have turned their backs on the order. Lit: "True Gray Ones."


	2. An Interrupted Voyage

The last word of the missive hung heavily in the air, fading reluctantly as the din and clatter of the inn swallowed it. Talan raised her eyes, meeting the concerned looks of each companion in turn. "A conclave?" Shokrakar was the first to speak, her disdain for human politics evident in her voice. "Chaska's Sweet Tongue, you can't be serious! You _know_ this won't end well! It'll be a bloodbath. Mages will always struggle against the leashes of Templars — as Saarebas fight the Arvaarad — it is the way of things." Shokrakar shook her head. _ **"** **No conclave will quell centuries of animosity; it cannot be done.** **"**_ This last was spoken in Qunlat, tersely. It was the way of all qunari outside the Qun; slipping into one's native tongue was meant to halt another's speech and draw attention, or to express a severity of situation that couldn't as easily be dismissed, as it would be were it uttered in Common instead.

"Pashaara, shanedan," Talan said calmly, holding up a hand. Folding the letter neatly, she returned it to the small leather satchel tied to her belt. _ **"It is not the way of hot blood to cool over night; but cool it will, just as a fire dwindles."**_ Ashaad and Kaariss nodded over their breakfasts, but Shokrakar's scowl only deepened. The captain sighed as she took a seat at the table. Unbuckling the leather harness containing her greatsword from her back, she placed it carefully aside before turning her attention back to her company. _ **"We are mercenaries; our lives are dictated by coin."**_ She looked pointedly at Shokrakar. ** _"_** _ **But that does not mean we cannot also have a sense of morality, now. The time has long past since we could not afford to think in such a way."**_ Violet eyes lowered at that, and Ashaad grunted in affirmation. "We are going to this conclave," Talan said firmly. Three nods followed her words. 

A silence fell as the captain ate her breakfast; it wasn't until she'd licked her fingers free of crumbs that her companions began to speak again. "I think it speaks well of them," Kaariss murmured, tensing as if he expected to be rebuked. "They're trying to forge another path, to break a cycle. It's admirable, and more than I can say for the Qun." Talan smiled fully at the sanguine young man; she was glad to see she wasn't alone in seeing the importance of what was to come. 

"Young whelp," Shokrakar grumbled. "Maraas imekari." 

"Raas," Ashaad cut in, giving her an icy glare before turning soft blue eyes to the boy. "He speaks well." The archer colored, as he always did under the other man's gaze. Ducking his head, he hid his angular face in a mass of thick, dark-yellow hair, the length of it creating a curtain around him. His light-red eyes found the Saarebas' face through thick lashes, and he smiled shyly in thanks. Ashaad's broad, tanned face broke into a grin, and he winked at the boy, his chuckle sounding like a roll of thunder reverberating in his chest. 

Talan drained her mug of water in a gulp and made to stand. "If you two are finished, I'd like us to find a ship before winter sets in."

Ashaad lifted a thick black brow and smirked at her. "Oh-ho! I see. What, you aren't going to tell us about your night with that elven girl? Must've been something," he teased, leaning back in his chair and crossing his massive arms over his chest, "To have you miss sunrise." 

"There's nothing to tell," she muttered, strapping her sword to her back again. She wasn't one to boast of her conquests — she shuddered to call them that — to cheapen the women she slept with in such a way was reprehensible to her mind. A mutual understanding had to be known; clear consent firmly established. It was the sharing of bodies, the respite of warmth she received, however brief, that staved off the demons in her head. It quieted the loneliness for a time, and for that Talan would do nearly anything. Seeing the shift in her expression, the Saarebas sighed heavily and began to gather his weapons with grim efficiency. When the captain was in one of her dark moods, it was best to start moving. It gave her less of a chance to brood. Kaar and Shokrakar followed suit without comment, he was glad to see.

Outside, as they readied their horses, Glynnii appeared, rounding the corner of the stable at a run. Seeing the mercenary captain, she skidded to a halt, nearly dropping the bundle in her hands. Glancing up from tightening the girth of Anaan's saddle, Talan raised a brow at her, taking in the girl's heaving chest and wide eyes. "Glynnii? Are you all right, has something happened?" 

"No, I — It's only that I'd thought I'd missed you, and I — Here," she managed breathlessly, holding out the bundle. "It's coffee, for your journey. There's three pounds, so it should last until you stop at port," she finished, a shy smile on her lips. _Father_ _bless this girl,_ Talan thought, wrapping her in a hug. A surprised gasp fell from the other woman's mouth, but she shifted, transferring the package to one hand in order to somewhat return the qunari's embrace. "It — It is only coffee, Serah," she murmured into her chest. "I'm sorry I could not do more." 

The captain shook her head, pulling back to look the elf in her eye. "It is enough that you thought to gift me, Glynnii. Thank you." Silently the bundle was put into her saddlebags, and silently Talan mounted, picking up the reins and resettling her features into an expression of easy composure. The creaking of saddle leather and impatient stamp of hooves told Talan her company was ready to ride. Clicking her tongue, she set Anaan to a smooth walk. 

"Serah — Talan — Will I see you again?" The inquiry was nearly swallowed by the sound of four horses, but the captain's sharp hearing detected it all the same. Glynnii was surprised at herself, for the question had come unbidden, but it had been asked, and she could not deny that the idea struck her as a rather happy one. 

"I hope so!" Talan called over her shoulder as the party gained speed, shifting from a trot to a full gallop. "Panahedan, Glynnii! Ataashi light your path!" The elf watched her go with a smile on her face. Thinking of the money that would buy her freedom, _The Red Dove Inn_ no longer cast such a long shadow.  
  


* * *

  
The captain of the _Calypso —_ Iapetus, he called himself — was a burly man. Dark-eyed and ebony-skinned, he looked every bit the seafarer. To Talan's surprise, he was young. No older than her twenty five years, if she had to guess. Yet despite that, there was a wariness about his eyes, a firmness to his thickly-bearded mouth that suggested he, like herself, was world-savvy. She suspected he was Rivaini, judging from his multiple piercings and tattoos. In Rivain, such things were indicators of rank as well as status, though Talan was unsure of how it worked upon a ship, where there was more inked skin than not. She did notice a few distinguishing features of the captain, though. For one, his beard was braided, both with rings of gold and silver as well as colorful beads. For another, his crew — scurrying about the deck to _appear_ as though they were working — bore scruff on their cheeks, and not one wore a single gold piercing, only silver. Iapetus had three golden studs covering the span of his left brow. 

He looked at her skeptically now, as if weighing her. No doubt he too had heard horror stories of her kind; that the qunari were horned beasts who bathed in the blood of children and raped the helpless. She fought to keep her face smooth as he debated, watched as he shifted from foot to foot and squinted beyond her left shoulder. Shokrakar, thank the Father, kept silent, though Talan could feel her growing desire to tell the man to get on with it. She doubted a second trade-ship large enough to carry both them and their horses would come before nightfall, if he didn't let them aboard.

Iapetus' gaze focused on her face finally, if a little reluctantly. He nodded. "Fine, fine. Aboard you go." A thick, dirty finger was pointed at her. "I'll not have brawls on my ship, mind. Distracts the men from their work." Talan handed him her coin purse and thanked him tightly. He ignored her, spinning on his heel with a barked order for his men. As the company boarded, Talan heard the captain mutter about what the world was coming to, for him to accept an Oxwoman's blood money. 

It was Kaariss who eventually softened the crew to them. Drawn in by the rich sound of the harp-lute he always carried, the men listened intently as they worked, seeming to mind their labors a little less while he played and sang. His singing voice was high and sweet, and his playing full of a longing that made Talan nostalgic for things long past, even when he played a carefree tune. Perhaps especially then. When the sun set, casting a purplish-yellow glow over the sea, the crew gathered around them all. They sipped whiskey from tin cups and looked on quietly from upturned crates until one of them untimely called for a jig. "Oi, play us a fast one, qunari, 'fore you have us all throwin' ourselves overboard with yer sad warblin'!" Raucous laughter always followed, even when his entertaining them became a nightly occurrence. Kaariss didn't seem to mind, but when the humans retired for the night, leaving only the four of them on deck, he would occasionally lapse into songs from their homeland, singing softly in Qunlat. 

Talan sat with her back to a mast, her long legs folded beneath her. A tin cup of the strong coffee Glynnii had given her rested on her knee. The warmth of it stung her palm pleasantly, though she hardly noticed, lost in her thoughts as she was. She'd missed being at sea, missed the wind and the smell of salt. It made her think of home, of her mother. Asala had taken her fishing as a child, had taught her how to use her hands in place of nets.

 _"Remember to be one with the sea, my little_ _Ataashi,"_ she'd murmured in her ear, her large, soft hands cupping Talan's smaller ones as they'd stood together, waiting for a catch. _"Be as calm as the waters, and the fish will come."_ That advice had saved her from an empty belly more than once when she'd first fled Seheron with nothing but a meager coin purse and the clothes on her back. After a year of wandering, a year of killing humans for the food they carried, a year of madness, a year of staving off her rage enough to work on farms for coin; she'd found her way to Kirkwall. There, she'd caught the attention of Jaah, a coarse, scarred Saarebas who'd led the then infamous Valo-kas mercenary company. She'd signed on happily when he'd asked, eager to take out her frustration on anything that walked. She grimaced inwardly, remembering the person that year had made her. Jaah's potent desire to kill those dedicated to the Qun — to eradicate the unknowing, to spare them from the curse of the Qun — had produced only a flicker of wrongness in her. She had been numb, then. Felt neither sadness or joy, only an emptiness that had nearly crippled her. 

When Jaah took his own life, unable to bear the burden of _asala-taar_ , that emptiness finally filled with grief, and Talan, having found him with a dagger in his chest and a smile on his face, had held his body and cried. She'd been relieved to feel _something,_ had thanked Ataashi over and over for the tears she'd shed. Succumbing to _asala-taar_ , to the darkness and rage inside herself, terrified her. She had a reason to deny it, now, a purpose: to not let her comrades — her _friends_ — fall to the same fate as Jaah. He had been a good man at heart, she believed, but his mind, addled as it had been with thoughts of blood, simply hadn't lent itself to calmness or rationality. She was able to view his death differently, having had time to think on it. A blessing, if an odd one to be given. He had been freed of his torment, she of her numbness. Only, loneliness took its place. Loneliness filled with the temporary warmth of women's bodies and kind smiles, with the knowledge that her parents were safe in Par Vollen, blending seamlessly with the city-dwellers.

Letting out a breath that blew steam into the night, Talan sipped her coffee and watched Kaariss. Ashaad was watching him, humming along softly to "The Catman's Eyes," a Rivaini cautionary tale set to music, without noticing. Shokrakar had long since gone to bed. Talan knew it was due to her unease concerning the conclave, and knew, too, that the stubborn woman would not surrender her misgivings until they had moved on with coin in their pockets. 

_It's just as well,_ she thought, rubbing idly at her sore shoulder pressed to the hard wood of the mast. _It saves her from disappointment, if things go sour. Mother's Blood, I hope they don't.  
  
_

* * *

  
The steady thump of several sets of feet pulled Talan from sleep with a jolt. The small cabin — lit only by lanterns hung on hooks about the bed — shook under the combined weight. Following a succession of rapid blinks, her senses returned, and she was able to make out shouts, as well as the frantic screams of horses. Quickly she tugged on her boots, having slept in the black cloth trousers and white tunic she'd worn for the duration of the journey, and grabbed her greatsword from its hook beside her cot. 

_Ataashi's Flame,_ _what—?_

"Move, you fools!" Iapetus bellowed. "I'll not have that wench mar my ship!" Talan made for the deck at a run, sword held high to not encumber her. The gray break of dawn met her as she merged with the others, eyes swiftly assessing the danger. A second, smaller ship was approaching starboard, and gaining too quickly. 

“Vashedan," Talan cursed. Their ship was moving too slowly to avoid being hit, the girth of it a hindrance to the needed speed even with sails unfurled. The only thing for it was to strike the enemy first, and hope that the sudden shift from defense to offence created enough confusion to distract their adversaries while they readied grappling hooks. At the helm, Iapetus shouted orders that went unheard as the men scrambled and the wind roared. The mercenary could see her kith among the humans, working efficiently alongside them. Working her way through a knot of sailors, she made her way to the helm, taking the stairs that led up to it two at a time. "Captain! We have to ram them, there's no other choice!" 

He growled at her, still frantically turning the wheel, even as she came to stand beside him. "Do you have _any_ bloody sense in that Maker-forsaken head of yours, _qunari_? We'd risk breaching the hull!" 

"Would you rather be overrun and raided to your last copper?" she asked, her voice hard with anger. _Mother's Blood, humans never listen! Stubborn, dathrasi-headed, venak hols!_ Iapetus glared. Talan held his gaze steadily, unperturbed. "We have a chance; I suggest you take it before it's taken from you." 

The Rivaini turned away from her, but drew a lungful of air and shouted: "Turning about! Brace for impact and prepare to be boarded!" Talan leapt from the helm, not sparing the captain a glance. Vaulting over the railing, she landed solidly on her feet. 

It was chaos as grappling hooks were employed and men drew their blades. The crash of ships shook Talan's balance, but as soon as the vibrations settled, she regained it again. Already the enemy were drawing steel and preparing to jump aboard. The mercenary readied herself, valo-kas held tightly in both hands and eyes steady. _Mother, bless me with your Flame and guide my sword. Father, make my steps light and my mind clear._ Steel rang on steel at last, and Talan ducked and parried with ease. Her blows, when they came, were strong and meant to kill. Blood soon covered her arms and splattered her cheeks, but she paid that no mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companions; Ashaad with his debilitating ice magic, Kaariss, feet away from the fighting, loosing arrows as quick as lightning, and Shokrakar, snarling as she blocked with her shield only to drive her long sword home between a man's ribs.

A scream from Iapetus made Talan pivot on her heels. A dagger was sticking out of the captain's left shoulder, his dark blue coat stained red. "You bitch!" he yelled at a dark-skinned woman, the captain of the opposing ship, Talan guessed by her feathered hat. "You'll never get my gold, Isabela! I swear by the Maker you won't!" 

The woman called Isabela laughed. "Idle threats from a man with a dagger in his shoulder." With a hard yank, she tore it free, and Iapetus fell to his knees with a yelp, clutching his wound. She pressed the tip of the bloodied dagger to his throat. "How many years have we done this, Iapetus? Aren't you tired of it yet?" Before Talan could move to assist him, a woman hurled herself at her, eyes blazing. The mercenary side-stepped, but the sword the woman wielded caught her left shoulder, slicing into her skin. Gritting her teeth, Talan crouched and rolled, springing up on her heels at the woman's back. Her opponent was just fast enough to turn before Talan drove her sword into the woman's chest. Blood spurted from the woman's mouth as she gasped. Wide-eyed and gurgling, she grasped uselessly at Talan's sword, buried to the hilt between her breasts. The qunari's golden-green eyes held her briefly panicked face, unwavering and grim.

Pulling her bloody blade free, Talan turned to her spectators. The slain woman's body fell to the deck with a thump. "Let him go," she said, pointing the tip of her valo-kas at Iapetus, who was still on his knees being held at knife-point, "Unless you want to be absent a hand." The calm certainty with which she spoke chilled Isabela to the bone _—_ the pirate had no doubt that the qunari had kept her word on many such threats — but she couldn't let this scum in front of her walk, not without getting what she came for. 

Taking a breath, she steeled herself and met Talan's stare with a smirk. "Afraid I can't do that, sweetness. This _impeccably_ -mannered sot stole from me, and I have no intention of leaving until I get my due." Her voice dripped with sarcasm and ire both. The mercenary captain's eyes flicked to the red scarf wrapped around the Rivaini's left forearm, embroidered with the black outline of a hawk in flight, talons outstretched. Isabela shifted under the scrutiny, nicking Iapetus' convulsing neck. A frightened, girlish yelp fell from the man's mouth in response. 

_Andraste's ass, she's intimating. Gives a whole new meaning to 'Tall, Dark, and Deadly.' Aveline'd shit her knickers, and she's a bloody battering ram._

"P-Please, ser qunari," Iapetus stuttered, looking beseechingly in Talan's direction, "I'll give you gold, riches, only don't let her kill me! I — I don't want to die! Maker preserve me, I—" 

"' _Ser_ qunari' now, is it?" Talan gave a fiercely unpleasant smile, her canines flashing. "Politeness, captain? I'm surprised. I am just a bloodthirsty _'Oxwoman'_ , after all."

All the color drained from his face. "I, no — that is, I — Forgive me, please! I have been foolish, but surely that does not warrant death?" 

"Quit your sniveling, man," she grunted derisively. "I'm not going to let her kill you." She met Isabela's gaze. "How did he wrong you?" 

"Mutiny," the pirate said tightly. "He was once a member of my crew, but he fled while in port in Ferelden, pilfering the most valuable gems and treasure I'd managed to accrue over the years, to buy his own bloody ship!" Her voice rose as she spoke, anger promptly swallowed by the sounds of battle behind them. 

"Isabela," Iapetus said roughly, speaking only a little more steadily without her dagger at his throat, "You knew I wanted no part of that life any longer. You cannot fault a man for wanting something better for himself. And besides, it's not as if you could not afford the absence of a few trinkets."

The Rivaini woman's dark face was tinted red with rage. _"Trinkets?!_ You stole ten-thousand sovereigns' worth of treasure!" 

"Aye, and now I am but a humble trader, free of thieving and killing, less the latter be aboard my own ship, at my own command. The ghost of the man I once was will haunt me no more. No more, I say!" 

"Why you ungrateful, doggish _bilge rat!_ I ought to—!" 

Talan laid a long-fingered, thick-palmed hand on the quivering woman's shoulder, stilling her. Isabela blinked in surprise before directing her furious gaze to the horned woman. She hadn't noticed the warrior come up behind her. "I can't let you kill him, but I _can_ offer you something else, something far less bloody."

The pirate grinned teasingly. "I'm taken, sweet thing." She arched a brow suggestively. "Though you _are_ rather tempting. I'd bet my mother you've made more than a few women cry for the Maker." 

"Some," the mercenary captain replied, smirking. "But no. My offer is a duel, to cede. Victor gives the other half of the earnings aboard their ship." Iapetus made a strangled sound of indignation, which Talan flatly ignored and Isabela reveled in. 

"Agreed," she said at last, looking amusedly at the injured captain's dark, wide eyes. Talan nodded and stepped back, readying herself again. Iapetus slowly rose from the deck, wet with slight rain and rivulets of blood. He looked at them both nervously as they took their stances. Around them, the fighting had ceased, and a circle of bodies had slowly begun to form around them, watchers alert despite the pain etched on their faces, put there by sword and fist alike. 

It was a dance, of sorts — Talan had always thought of duels as such — comparing the final blow to the last step of a waltz, (she had seen pictures in the many novels she had read over the years, of humans knotted together and gliding), or to the fading note of a bard's song. Now, the only music to be had was rain, falling in a rhythmic beat to the deck, and the sound of breathing, of waiting. 

Isabela made the first move, testing her opponent's reflexes in a quick gab at the qunari's damaged shoulder. Talan leaned back, jerking her upper-body to the right; the only thing the Rivaini's blade met was air. Dark lips quirked in an approving smirk, and Talan took the moment to step back, and swing at the woman's feet. Isabela jumped over the blade, and when she landed, she pirouetted, expecting to land a hit, but the qunari's blade was already up and held to block. Steel grated against steel as they stood in a momentary bind. Talan used her height and strength to her advantage, pushing until the pirate was forced to give, then stepped in as Isabela regained her equilibrium to land a touch on the other woman's shoulder, giving her a thin cut. 

It went on like this for some time — dodge, strike, pirouette, cut, and over again — with neither of them budging in full. Sweat beaded both brows; two sets of chests heaved in tandem. A matter of endurance, now. The veins in Talan's arms and hands stood stark against her skin; Isabela's jaw had set, hissing air through gritted teeth as she fought. As they entered another bind, the pirate wavered, exhaustion evident on her face. Talan swept her dagger aside with the last of her own strength, and held the tip of her greatsword to the dark woman's throat. Two fingers were held up in surrender, and the sword was lowered. For a moment, the only noises were their panting and the rain, heavier now and soaking all aboard. 

"Well fought," Talan said when she regained her breath. 

Isabela nodded, sheathing her daggers with a slightly pained expression; the gash the qunari had dealt to her right thigh stung. "You're light on your feet. Did a duelist train you?" She was genuinely intrigued. She had never seen a qunari move with such effortlessness, and yet the woman before her had not only grace but a firmness to her movements, which spoke to the fact that she was a warrior. 

"No. My father taught me." The pirate watched a shadow pass briefly over the other woman's strong-lined face, like the flickering of candlelight, and knew it for the countenance of one remembering a dark moment of their past. She had worn that expression herself more than once.

"He taught you well, sweet thing," she said softly. 

Compassion. It still felt odd, occasionally, like a healed burn that sometimes ached, but she was growing more accustomed to it as the years wore on. _Hawke's bloody influence, making me soft, but Maker do I love her._

Talan gave a small smile in response, amused at the rogue's sudden shift of eyes and feet. The Rivaini struggled with openness, much as she herself did. Nevertheless, the mercenary surmised she was genuine in her compliment. Isabela cleared her throat. "Azeer!" A tan-skinned, bare-chested, well-built man came forward. His black hair, long and braided, swung as he came to her side. "Gather a few men and give the _captain_ his reward," she gave Iapetus a hard look as she spoke, spitting his title like a curse. "The rest of you, see to our dead and wounded. I'll not leave them to rot on this Maker-forsaken ship."

Isabela started at the feeling of a warm hand on her shoulder as the horned mercenary passed, a glimpse of sympathy came and went in the other woman's strange eyes, so fast the pirate was not sure if it had been there at all. When she looked over her shoulder, all she saw was the qunari's muscled back; a warrior with a shield held tightly in place.  
  


* * *

  
"I ought to make both of you walk the plank for this!" Iapetus' furious bellow carried across the ship. His bulging eyes held two cowering men captive, his mouth twisted in anger as he slowly advanced on them. Talan swore from her vantage point atop a barrel — Ashaad was tending her shoulder with needle and thread, the pain of which she made herself vehemently ignore — that foam had formed around the man's lips. "You scurvy-ridden dogs! Half my crew is dead or soon will be, thanks be to you! All because you couldn't keep your fuckin' eyes open! If you enjoy being fogged with sleep when danger rises, mayhaps you won't mind me taking them from your Maker-damned skulls and savin' you the fucking trouble of sharp-sight!"

"C-Captain, we's didn't mean this to happen. We's only wanted a few winks, see, and—" 

"Shut yer bloody mouth, Jiggins!" his companion hissed, pale-faced and quaking, "Less you aim to go back to Alessa and yer boy blind!" 

Iapetus smirked humorlessly. "Wise words for your mate, Fariss," he said coldly, dangerously calm now. "Maker willing you sots hold your fucking tongues while you swab the decks for the rest of our bloody voyage, because if you don't, I'll do worse than take your fucking eyes!" With that he whirled, stomping off to his quarters. Jiggins and Fariss both visibly sagged, white faces slowly regaining color between harsh whispers of reprimand.

Talan sympathized with them, recalling the rough side of Jaah's tongue when she'd questioned his fanatic beliefs as a stupidly bold recruit not yet out of her eighteenth year. Had _he_ captained this ship, she knew, the watchmen would undoubtedly have been flayed or drowned for such an oversight, pleas for mercy not withstanding. She shuddered, thinking of it, and Ashaad hastily apologized, intentionally speeding up his needlework to be done all the quicker. To Talan's mind, the Saarebas had the gentlest touch of all of them, though the largeness of his hands gave a false perception of roughness upon first look. She remembered being startled at the smoothness of his palms and the dexterity of his fingers when he had first employed magic to heal her, and how she had berated herself later for making the assumption that a man his size could not possibly be soft, in any sense of the word. His proficiency in healing had laughed in the face of speculation. The only reason he had opted for thread and needle instead of the aforementioned method was because most of his mana had been depleted in the fight. He made no mention of this — he never had, that she could recall — but Talan could plainly see weariness on his face. 

"How are the others?" she asked, taking a swig of maraas-lok from the flask she'd had in her saddlebags to mask the twitch of her cheek as his needle pierced her shoulder again.

Ashaad smiled wryly. "They'll live." He cut the remaining thread with his teeth as he spoke, finished the dressing deftly, and with a satisfied nod to his handiwork, reached for the flask balanced on his captain's knee. She handed it to him without comment. "Shokrakar," he chuckled, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, "Is already grumbling about the uselessness of humans, and how one of them put a dent in her best armor." 

"That doesn't surprise me," Talan said, shaking her head in amusement and reaching for the flask. "For all her ability, the woman sometimes makes as much sense as trying to use a dragon's tooth in place of a hammer." 

The Saarebas grinned widely. "Thank the Mother she's not within earshot to hear you. I agree, but as long as she's more focused on not getting killed, that's all that matters. Kaar can't rankle her nerves with his Father-damned optimism if she gets a dagger in the back while scowling at a human for damaging her plate." 

His companion nodded in agreement. "How is he?" 

"Took a few scrapes. Has a black eye, and Ataashi knows how he managed to get himself a cracked rib... I healed him as best I could. He'll be fine. Lad's just chomping at the bit to be on land again." Talan winced in sympathy. She'd lost count of the times she'd cracked or broken a rib, but this was Kaariss' first time, and she knew the amount of pain he was in. She stood, tossing Ashaad a smile as she clapped him on his shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's go rescue him from his boredom before he tries to jump ship and _swim_ to the conclave." 

Ashaad put an arm around his captain's shoulders as they made their way back to their quarters. 

"Uh, beggin' yer pardon, sers," the man named Jiggins called, visibly uncomfortable at approaching not one, but two qunari. They halted and offered easy smiles. He tried to ignore the shaking in his knees. "Um... That is, I... ah... The boys and I were wantin' to thank ye fer fightin' alongside us. Woulda been a lot more of us hurt without ya, and well... We's appreciate it." Talan's grin nearly split her face. _Blimey, do all Oxmen look like they could eat ya whole when they's just smilin'? Maker save me, I hope that's a smile._ He repressed a shudder at the size and sharpness of her canines, trying not to imagine them ripping into his throat. His Da had told him a story about that, once. He hoped it wasn't true. 

"We don't often hear that, Jiggins, thank you." He nodded stiffly and lowered his eyes, reddening under her genuine gratitude. It wasn't often people thanked him for anything. 

_Maybe qunari ain't all bad,_ he thought, turning back to join the others. _At least, that lot ain't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary: Arvaarad — Lit. "One who holds back evil." The Qunari equivalent of Templars. Responsible for hunting down Tal-Vashoths and Saarebas.  
> Pashaara, shanedan — Enough, I hear you.  
> Maraas imekari — A child bleating without meaning.  
> Raas — No.  
> Anaan — Victory. Also the name of Talan's horse.  
> Panahedan — Goodbye. Lit. "Take refuge in safety."  
> Asala-Taar — "Soul sickness." PTSD, depression and/or mental breaks.  
> Maraas-Lok — Strong Qunari alcohol.  
> Dathrasi — Pig(s).  
> Venak hols — Wearying ones.  
> Dathrasi-headed venak hols — "Pig-headed wearying ones."


End file.
